an end view

In our youth, life is seen as grand.
Then comes age and the withered hand.
We look...we wonder...
We struggle to remember
The long ago days
When skating was a craze.
But the eyes only see through a gray mist,
Sitting on the bench, unable to recall the first kiss.
With a ragged and heavy sigh,
Hope is tenuous, maybe a lie,
As we look to the leaves falling,
Unable to hear the young one calling.